Diary of a Wronged Woman
by Lady Duck
Summary: We know what Watson was thinking throughout The Sign of Four, but what of the client Mary Morstan? What were her thoughts of the whole mystery, beginning with the day she received the telegram from her father? She reveals all in her diary.
1. 2 December 1878

**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters mentioned, except for Mrs. Young and Mr. Arnold. All others belong to the wonderful Conan Doyle!**

**So I was having a really bad case of writer's block when my friend told me to try stream of consciousness writing. For those who don't know what that is, it's writing whatever comes into your mind, no questions asked. I was reading The Sign of Four when it got me thinking: what would Mary Morstan be thinking throughout the entire ordeal, beginning with the telegram from her father? I applied the SOC and came up with a diary!**

**Okay, so I'm gonna be uploading under this story like crazy for a few days, and I've got many chapters yet to come! Please bear in mind that some might be really short, and others...not so short, I guess :) I've tried to make this seem as much of a diary of a growing woman as I can, and have been consulting the book to make sure I've got my facts straight and all that. If you see something out of the ordinary, don't hesitate to let me know! And don't be shy about leaving reviews either and telling me what you think!**

**Thanks and enjoy!**

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2 December 1878

Alas, I have finally received word from dear Papa! He has come home from that terrorizing country he served, while in a regiment posed for the Queen's army to restate control in that poor, desolate nation of India, I believe. He has sent a telegram from London. The words are so full of love and kindness, and I could feel it...the man has missed me as much as I have him. After seventeen years of painful separation, we shall finally be reunited as father and daughter! Only one more day!

The hotel he requests my presence at is not a long distance from my lodgings. It's called the Langham, and from what I've heard of it through city gossip, it is actually very spacious and comfortable. I'm sure I needn't inform the landlady of my errand, not that she would possess the capacity to care about such an important event in the life of her young tenant. I hate to say it, or write it (technically), but the woman is of a rather beastly nature...what has wronged her in life that she must wrong the lives of those around her?

It is of no consequence to my current predicament, but I do pity Mrs. Young. I rather hope that she may be unburdened of her obvious sufferings eventually. Or, for the sake of the good people she interacts with on a daily basis, including myself, very soon.

But I digress. I'm going off to meet Papa tomorrow! Oh, I cannot bear the anticipation of the look of joy I wish to appear on that rugged, adventurous face of his! But, once acknowledgements are made, and words of love exchanged, what then? Do I inquire as to his military service? Or should I not rub salt into the wound (as the London newspapers report, the success of the regiments deported to Her Majesty's state of India has been minimal)? Will he ask of my well being? Do I inform him of my satisfactory marks from the Edinburgh school he sent me to as a child? That seems like boring conversation to me, but he might want to know. Should I relate to him my fruitless search for employment?

If I should tell him that specific bit of information, he would pity me. I do not require pity from Papa! I only require his love, and that he is unharmed from his perilous journeys.

Ah, I believe Mrs. Young is stomping up the stairs...yes, there is anger and determination in her footsteps...perhaps she is...

And there is the pounding of her meaty fist upon the door of my unfortunate neighbor Mr. Arnold. The poor man can't seem to come up with the necessary payments to continue living in this decrepit boarding house, or so he told me yesterday morning; this confuses me, since the cost to live here obviously reflects the decrepit living situations here. He must be as badly off as I!

I am just too excited to continue writing presently. I think I am going to pour myself a celebratory cup of tea. And try to ignore the blatant and vicarious argument taking place only feet from my own door.


	2. 3 December 1878

**Disclaimer: I wish I was the mastermind behind Sherlock Holmes and all associated with him, but I'm not :( that's Conan Doyle's department.**

**Just so everyone knows, I am not jumping ahead to the consultation between Sherlock Holmes and Mary Morstan any time soon...it could very well be a dozen or so chapters before I even reach that point! I'm trying to convey Mary's thoughts and emotions over the years of dealing with her dad's disappearance and the receiving of the pearls from an unknown sender (those chapters are coming soon!). So, if you're going to get bored with my running away with Mary's mind for twenty chapters or so, no Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson except for casual mentionings, then this is probably not the story for you. But I encourage you to give it a try anyways, and if you can't go on with it because it's not your cup of tea, that's perfectly fine! **

**Please leave comments and reviews! I love listening to feedback :)**

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3 December 1878

I cannot believe the events I have just endured. I feel as if an immovable weight has pressed into my chest, not allowing me to breathe or my heart to stabilize. How could this have happened? To Papa, and to me? I don't think I made any mistake in following his instructions to me! I arrived at the Langham, as directed, and called up to his room...

What, in the name of Providence, has happened to Papa?

When I'd arrived at the Langham, the clerk at the desk informed me that yes, Papa was indeed staying there, but unfortunately he'd gone out before I'd even come. The night before, I found out. This somewhat made sense to me; he'd gone out to send me the telegram, and possibly found a comrade and engaged in conversation; it became too late to return to the Langham alone, so he was invited to stay with the friend for the night. This was a theory, of course, but quite a probable one. The explanation I formulated in my mind for the circumstances didn't dispel the feeling of apprehension clawing at my insides. I thanked the clerk and told him I would wait for him. I did not know how long that would be.

Periodically, I noticed the hotel manager keeping a close eye upon me, watching me closely with his hawk-like demeanor, ready to swoop down and snatch me as if I was his prey. I tried my best to hide from his view, but there were only so few seats in enclosed areas in the hotel lobby.

Once the clock near the doors struck ten, I jumped in my seat. I hadn't realized that I'd been waiting for Papa in the same spot for the last twelve hours, and the bright blue sky that was ever so promising this morning had blackened to night. The hawk flew from his perch and sat in the unoccupied seat next to mine. He wouldn't allow me to ignore him, much to my annoyance.

"Miss, my clerk has told me that you have been waiting quite some time for a gentleman..."

"My father," I interrupted. My voice sounded quite cold.

He nodded without flinching at my tone and continued. "I would suggest you contact the police. If your father is the gentleman you suppose he is, he would not have kept you waiting for this long. Or he would have sent notice to meet him elsewhere."

My mind had weakened considerably with the boring drone of the day, edged with anxiety and worry. I was barely listening to the hawk as he went on about what my father would have done if he'd been a "gentleman". When he finally ceased speaking to catch his breath, I cut in quickly before he could begin again, "You're right, sir. I will go to Scotland Yard directly. Thank you for your help."

The hawk's sharp features seemed to soften a little; now he only seemed a small canary. My own opinion of him improved when he proffered to me a hansom, and kindly paid my fare. I rode away from the Langham, now feeling slightly uplifted at having departed the awful place, but not completely. Papa was still gone, and had not left a clue as to where or why.

When I arrived at Scotland Yard, the sergeant that sat behind the front desk appeared the picture of exhaustion. But when I rushed into the room, he straightened and all traces of sleep-induced stupor were gone.

"Good evening, madam. How may I be of service to you?" he asked with an amiable smile.

I assume the smile was meant to give me a sense of ease, but it only did well to force a reaction in my stomach similar to nausea. Not to mention that I felt my physical appearance made me seem a wild animal.

I related to the young sergeant the occurrences of the day, and as my tale was told, I was surprised to find him almost unaffected. He was still grinning, but I was becoming increasingly annoyed with his attitude. When I had finished, he had the nerve to chuckle.

"And you are sure, Miss Morstan, that your father did not just give you the wrong address? Or, he was delayed in his return home from India?"

"That is not possible. The address of the hotel was given to me through a telegram he sent to me yesterday. And it was sent from London; the label upon the telegram made that fact quite clear," I argued.

"There is not any possibility that it was simply a misunderstanding?"

"No!" I cried. "It's not possible!"

"Miss Morstan..." the officer said in low tones, an evident warning to keep my propriety as a young lady. But I was not in the mood to be silenced on the matter. I wanted to physically harm the sergeant for his blatant indifference!

"Listen to me, sergeant. My father, who loves me dearly, returned home yesterday morning on the H.M.S. Britannia, and according to his telegram, went directly to his hotel. If you are only going to sit as my heart wrenches for my missing father, then either I speak with your superior, or I assume that Scotland Yard's reputation as a dependable establishment to rid England of crime is unjustified."

That seemed to right the young fellow; he scrambled up from his chair and disappeared into another room, returning moments later with a man bearing a tag that identified him as the superintendent. I followed their hansom back to the Langham and watched as they questioned the employees, the manager, and any residing guest that was within their reach. The sight of the proceedings wearied me...after all, it was in regards to my father, whom I expected to be with me at the moment, laughing and talking with me, and planning a date in the future to meet again. Oh, where is he?

It was almost midnight when the officers dismissed me, and near a quarter to one when I finally returned to my rooms. I could barely walk up the stairs to the floor my quarters are stationed; my legs felt like heavy cement blocks, only allowing me to drag them about as if through mud. I moved slowly, utilizing the rest of my energy to unlock my door. Then I felt a burning, a need almost, to pen everything of the details of today's events, and now that I have, that sudden burst of energy is gone and my eyes can barely stay open.

I hope I don't dream tonight. I don't want to get my hopes up that he is alive and well; I fear the worst for Papa.


	3. 25 December 1878

**Disclaimer: Everything related to Sherlock Holmes is not mine, but the brilliant Conan Doyle's.**

**Thanks for reading and please leave any comments or reviews! Feedback would be extremely helpful!**

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25 December 1878

Christmas holds no interest for me this year. Since I am left in this world with no relations, other than Papa, I have come to expect nothing of the cheery holiday. In all my experiences of Christmas eves and mornings, I would normally feel inclined to act my part of the overjoyed woman wrapped in the magic of such a holiday, especially when Papa would send a package from India. He is such a dear; he never forgets a holiday, be it Christmas, Halloween, or my birthday. Last year, for instance, a beautiful wreath of marigolds and a smaller box were lying by my door when I returned home from my employment at the time. Inside the little compartment was a ring, gold with an amethyst centered upon it. I have never taken it off, and now it very well may be the only memory of him I may retain.

The police have given up searching for him. They said rather bluntly that he was either dead or playing hide and see, and that unless he chose to show himself if it were the latter, then there was no hope of recovering him. This was related to me two weeks ago; my mind might believe it, but my heart won't stop looking for a sign of him. Any officer I see roaming the London streets with brown hair and a lopsided grin makes me jump now, and you would be shocked as to how many of this breed of officers there are. If I can stand or stroll close to one and look into his eyes, then I can see a definite difference. Papa's eyes are a warm chocolate brown, vivacious and bright. Most men's eyes I've glanced at are either icy blue or dull, flat brown. I think I might be going mad with this solitary search of mine...but I have to find him. I _need_ to find him.

The snow is drifting quite peacefully from the black sky to the pavement below. I used to enjoy snow as a child. Now, it's only a cold reminder that the time I have left to locate Papa is running out. I was reading a collection of Edgar Allan Poe poems earlier today, and I must say that it could be a small reason pertaining to my dampened spirits (the other reason does not need mentioning again). Children look at snow and see fluffy white flakes dancing in the breeze, only to fall and melt away; but that did not matter, for there was always more. It's a beautiful occurrence to a child, or a naïve adult.

But to me, the snow only brings and undercurrent of...death, and despair. The snowflakes fall, and are individually original, yes, but when they fall and land, they die quickly. Since there are more to come, we don't think of it; but when it's the last flake before the sun shines again, we realize what we are going to miss until the next snowfall arrives.

Mrs. Young is calling for the tenants downstairs. It is odd how she can be so polite and agreeable on Christmas when it is a total contrast to her realistic behavior. She has prepared a goose with trimmings, and from what Ms. Johnson on the first floor has informed me, a baked ham as well. A jolly feast for a jolly holiday.

I'm going to catch Mr. Arnold. I think I can hear him leaving his room now.

* * *

I told him to let Mrs. Young know that my presence at dinner will not be necessary. I have suddenly become quite ill. At least, that's what they will believe.

I have no interest in partaking in the festivities of such a happy day when my attitude will only destroy the day for everyone. I only want to sit in my room and think.


	4. 1 May 1882

1 May 1882

I have advertised in the newspapers my name and address, and stated that I was searching for employment, preferably as a governess. Today I received a notification from a Mrs. Cecil Forrester, and that she would be pleased to obtain a governess for her two little girls, aged 6 and 9. She said my salary would consist of 75 pounds per year; heavens above!

I think I am going to reply to Mrs. Forrester and accept her offer. It could possibly be the only one I ever have.

A peculiar incident occurred this morning. I had just returned from the postal office with my letter from Mrs. Forrester when I noticed a copy of what appeared to be a magazine by my door; when I looked closer, I saw it was The Strand magazine. I was puzzled, for I had never subscribed to such an establishment. The address inscribed upon it was Mr. Arnold's.

I decided to take it in with my letter; I was sure Mr. Arnold would have no objection. I was currently searching for new reading material as it was. One can read Poe only so many times…on the cover was an illustration of two men sitting in what looked like a sitting room with a great hearth in between them. One, a man with black hair and long, thin legs stretched out towards the fire, was smoking a pipe; the other, who appeared well-built with brown hair and a moustache of the same color, was writing in a journal of some sort. In large bold letters was written The Five Orange Pips. What an odd phrase.

I opened the magazine to the page marking the beginning of what revealed to be a mystery. The main characters, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, were brought a case by a young man threatened with five orange pips after his father dies following the receipt of a similar threat. Reading on, I found myself captivated by such description of emotion, and shocked at the rate of deduction Sherlock Holmes possessed. The solution to the case proved to be a satisfying conclusion for me; I had heard of an organization known as the K.K.K. before, and it did not seem unwonted for them to resort to such measures to regain important papers.

The strangest aspect to the story was the striking differences between the two men. Sherlock Holmes, from what I read of him, seemed an arrogant, unfeeling man who possessed the brain of a genius; if it weren't for the presence of Doctor Watson, Sherlock Holmes would never gain such a clientele, I'm sure. The doctor, in contrast, was more likeable, charming, and intelligent in his own right; a very successful doctor, and he seemed to humble his companion a great deal. It amused me how such a friendship between such diverse men could come to be.

I believe I am going to subscribe to The Strand. These exploits of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are quite exciting…Father would have enjoyed them immensely.


	5. 4 May 1882

**All right, so this chapter is a doozy compared to the previous one, and I apologize for my lack of consistency with the lengths of the chapters! This goes for all future chapters too, and for the previous ones! Thanks, and review please!**

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4 May 1882

I arrived at Mrs. Cecil Forrester's home yesterday and was greeted with a warm welcome by the woman herself. Luckily, the distance from my former lodgings and my employer's residence was not far, and I could actually afford to pay the driver myself! When I had rode up, a slender woman of average height was positioned by the front door. She was smiling widely and bringing her hands together nervously, and would frequently brush a strand of dark brown hair from her face. At least I was not the only person feeling anxious.

She helped me from the hansom and took my suitcase before I could reach and take it myself. Mrs. Forrester insisted upon the point, and I was not going to argue with her when I had just arrived. It was not as if my luggage weighed heavily; I only possessed few dresses as it was. She led me into her home; it was modest and comfortable, with simple furnishings and an air of dignity presided over the front hall. I respected Mrs. Forrester already, and greatly too; she was quickly proving herself to be a gracious and humble employer.

"So, Miss Morstan, I would be happy to show you your room," she said. I nodded my assent and followed her upstairs to the first door we came across. My new room was absolutely more than I had ever expected, definitely more than a mere governess could ask for. It is very clean and sharp; every speck on the carpet and every piece of furniture appeared as if it belonged there. It feels like my home, actually…my father's home.

I could feel tears forming in my eyes, but I quickly pushed them back. I would not cry in front of the woman who had kindly accepted me to stay in her home and attend to her children.

"Thank you, Mrs. Forrester. I am very grateful to you for allowing me to reside here with your family," I said.

She smiled maternally before chuckling. "Nonsense, my dear! It is only just that a governess should live with her employer." A clock chimed out in the hallway, and Mrs. Forrester took her leave and left me to settle myself in my new surroundings.

I hadn't the opportunity to acquaint myself with the children, who I found to be named Annie and Emma, the latter being the eldest sibling. Apparently they were visiting with their grandmother, or Mrs. Forrester's late husband's mother, and were not to return until late today. It is almost noon now, so in a few hours at the least.

Someone is calling for me from downstairs. Mrs. Forrester? Of course, it could only be her. I can faintly hear her say something in regards to a newspaper advertisement…

I'd best go and see what is so important in the newspaper that concerns me.

* * *

How extraordinary.

Mrs. Forrester had indeed been summoning me, regarding an advertisement she came across in the Times. She appeared rather excited, and her pale skin had flushed to a pink. I came downstairs and found her in the parlor, clutching the newspaper in her hands.

"You called for me, Mrs. Forrester?" I said.

"Yes I did, Miss Morstan. I thought that you should like to read what I've just discovered in the paper this morning!" she said, her green eyes flashing.

I took the newspaper from her and looked to where she pointed. There, in the advertisement column, was a square block; written in it was this:

_If a young lady by the name of Miss Mary Morstan lives in London, it would be very advantageous for her to come forward and provide her current address._

It was a most singular instruction for such a popular newspaper as the Times, and when I'd concluded my perusal of it, I gave the paper back to my employer. She caught my eye, questions arising in the sea of green.

"Well? Shall you publish your address?" she asked eagerly.

I bit my lip and shrugged. There was no name or address that gave a clue as to the original publisher of the advertisement. I was dubious as to the sensibility of posting my address to an unknown enquirer. I voiced as much to Mrs. Forrester, who nodded understandably.

"But, my dear, perhaps it would be best if you did so! It could be a relative, or a friend you'd lost contact with from school…"

"I have no relatives living," I interjected. "Nor do I believe that any girl from my school days would do something so callous as to advertise for me and not append their own name and address."

"That may be, but think about this, Miss Morstan. If this person is being truthful, and it would be to your advantage to post your address, then I should think you would do it."

"But, the risks! It would be irresponsible on my part to answer to such a vague enquiry!"

Mrs. Forrester shook her head. "Would you like my advice, Miss Morstan?" I told her I very much would appreciate it. As an adult who lost her husband, she has seen much of the world and such situations as my own. Perhaps she would dissuade me from advertising, tell me that, practically, it was a foolish idea.

Instead, she said, "Then I should publish it, Mary."

At first, I was most reluctant to the thought of giving my address to an unknown entity, but Mrs. Forrester reassured me by in our advertisement we would ask for the identity of the original advertiser. It was the only way I could be comfortable with the problem at hand. This made me realize how much I respected my lady employer…she seemed to act like a mother to me, like the mother I aged without.

In a few minutes, I am to depart the house to go to the office responsible for the publication of the Times. My own advertisement reads as thus:

_Miss Mary Morstan, concerning a previous advertisement, gives her address as 719 Whitechapel Street, London. If the author of the said advertisement mentioned could come forward with his/her own name and address, it would be greatly appreciated._

I feel satisfied with the attitude of the inscriptions. I hope that whomever has asked for my information will soon give me their own, and assuage the small feeling of discomfort in the pit of my stomach. Perhaps this was only a silly joke played by college lads wandering about for unsuspecting women. Something Mrs. Forrester said earlier, about the stranger possibly being a relative…

I'd told her I had no relatives living, but then again I have not mentioned the mysterious fate surrounding Father. It crossed my mind that perhaps it was he, after these last four years, searching for me. The thought gave me a startling hope that he was truly alive, a hope I'd thought to have buried deep within me so it couldn't ever rise. It was foolish of me to hope that after four years, he was to suddenly appear like a rabbit from a magician's hat. Before I came to the decision to advertise my residence, I'd released that fluttering hope; if he'd been absent for four years, with no evidence as to where, then it was most likely he would never return to me.

Ah, if I'm not mistaken, a hansom has just halted in front of the house.

* * *

I have just been introduced to Emma and Annie Forrester. The two girls seem quite well behaved and delightful, not at all like the children described in so many novels, horrid and displeasing. I did not receive much time to acquaint myself with them, but I was assured that tomorrow I shall begin my duties as their governess. Emma in particular seemed most happy to see me, but for what reason I don't know. Annie didn't say a word, but as the youngest of the sisters, it's only natural for her to be shy and reluctant.

The advertisement situation went over rather well. I have not received any notification as to who…

Oh! I believe that was the bell from the front door. I shall go to see who it is!

* * *

What in the name of Providence is this? A package was sitting on the step when I opened the door, addressed to me. I came directly to my room to open the mysterious package in private…mostly away from the ever-curious countenance of Mrs. Forrester. Bless the woman, but she can be a little too gregarious when permitted. However, it is not my place to tell her this, so I shall let it alone for now.

My goodness! What an exquisite little stone! No, not a stone…a pearl, I believe. And quite a large one too!

The box does not contain a return address…how singular…

Who could have the means to send to me such a lustrous pearl?


	6. 11 June 1882

11 June 1882

Nothing of interest is happening, has happened, nor do I believe that anything of the sort will happen again. I have not forgotten the incident with the pearl, but I have puzzled for so long over this that my brain has built a defense to it. It won't allow my thoughts to stray towards the extravagant object. But there are moments when I catch myself unaware and think about it. I suppose I shall never know who sent it to me, or what the motive behind the action was.

I am retiring this diary for the time being. I am only going to write my thoughts in it when something of great importance or interest occurs, and until then, I shall hide it somewhere. So, for the moment, this is goodbye_._


	7. 1 January 1883

**Wow, I've never written such a short chapter before! Anyways, thanks for keeping up with the story! Longer chapters are on the way, I promise :)**

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1 January 1883

I have not written for quite some time. I only remove my journal from its resting place to make note of my New Year's resolution.

I, Mary Morstan, resolve to pray for Father every night for the remainder of my life.

Perhaps God will take notice of my feat and bring him back to me.


	8. 4 May 1883

4 May 1883

I had decided to take Emma and Annie to lunch with me at Simpson's. They were both succeeding in their studies as a result of determination and hard work, and have always been polite and respectful towards me. So I rewarded them.

The food was excellent, and the atmosphere was inviting and friendly. Both girls enjoyed the outing immensely, and I took pleasure in their acceptance of me and my choices regarding them. I feel so lighthearted and jovial around them…they just have pleasing demeanors and never allow a dull moment during our days together. I never thought I could take to children so quickly and willingly.

Something rather amusing occurred as we were leaving. I was ushering the girls out the door when my shoulder bumped into that of a man just entering the building with his gentleman companion. I apologized quickly, stopping with Emma and Annie to look at the man. I was most shocked and surprised to see it was Doctor Watson, the same man who published the Sherlock Holmes stories in the Strand!

"Oh, I beg your pardon sir!" I said.

Doctor Watson smiled and waved his hand, dismissing my apology. "Don't worry, my dear, it is not your fault. I should have been paying attention to where I was walking! I admit I didn't see…"

"Watson!" his friend cried. His tall, gaunt body was half in the restaurant as it was.

I noticed an empty hansom approaching, so I smiled and quickly said, "I must go. Goodbye, and I apologize, once again!"

I could hear the doctor chuckle and his friend calling Doctor Watson along impatiently. It was not until we were a few miles from Simpson's that I realized who the doctor's friend was. Sherlock Holmes, of course!

Despite the meeting happening in result of my clumsiness, I was in good spirits upon returning to Mrs. Forrester's Whitechapel residence. I had hung my cloak on an available hook in the front hallway when Mrs. Forrester's dark head peeked from behind the parlor door.

"Oh, Mary? Is that you? Yes, and with the girls too! Oh Mary, a small parcel arrived for you while you were gone! I took the liberty of delivering it to your room!" Before I could thank her, she disappeared behind the door.

The same package my eyes are beholding right now is the one mentioned just before. There is something vaguely familiar about it…the size, the writing of my address, the weight…my curiosity is peaked enormously.

. . .

I did not believe that such a small box could hold so much grief and confusion.

It seemed that history has indeed repeated itself, for I just received an object that is largely identical to something in my possession that I have hidden away for safety.

When I'd opened the box, the glint of a well-sized white pearl met my gaze. A pearl that is a twin to another. I admit that when I first laid eyes upon it, I wanted to close the box and heave it through the window. Why didn't I?

What a pretty little puzzle this was turning to be! Who is sending me these pearls, and why? Perhaps I should take the pearls to a jeweler…he could tell me of where a pearl as fine as this originated, or where they were found currently. That might give me an indication as to the sender. One possibility that struck me was the sender was wealthy; who else could afford such a treasure? It has become clear to me that I might receive more. There is an undercurrent of foreboding knowledge that is present with these gifts. But, why did this person send them so distanced from each other? If I recall correctly, the first pearl appeared…exactly a year ago. May 4, 1882.

Does this mean I shall expect another pearl next year on the same day?

I don't know presently, so all I can do is wait.

The year shall be long, then!


	9. 22 September 1883

22 September 1883

I went to the library this morning. It is Annie's birthday on the 25th, and she has developed a voracious appetite for literature as of late, which struck me as slightly unusual for a girl almost 8 years of age. I remember how books were my only companions at my school when I was but her age…they aided me through dire times, indeed.

While I was at the library, someone who had been there previously left a haphazardly stacked pile of old newspapers on one of the tables. The librarian on duty seemed quite out of sorts, so I offered to put them away for her. As I organized the old records according to date (meticulously, I hope), my eyes glanced upon the page of a rather recent edition. Well, I'm not sure if eighteen months is recent anyhow. But, it was an obituary. And the first name listed was Major Bernard Sholto.

Sholto…yes, I remember him! He served in Father's regiment, the 34th Bombay Infantry! And, according to the letters written to me from India, he was also a great friend to Father. How astonishing that I can't recall ever reading this edition of the newspaper!

His death was listed as April 28, 1882, and attributed to a heart attack. April 28, 1882. He died only days before I received the first pearl. However I don't think the two events are related; just mere coincidences, I suppose.

But still, it is a rather perplexing matter. If I had been more sensible as a girl of 17, then I should have contacted Major Sholto directly following the day of Father's disappearance! And now it's too late to contact him! Damn!

To speak of another matter, I am fairly certain that Annie will enjoy the novel I purchased for her. As a child, I depended greatly upon the works of Shakespeare, and now I believe she shall enjoy them as wholly as I did. The vocabulary and language should be of no difficulty to her; she has extended her knowledge of the realm of the English language to a point that I don't believe I'd ever reached at her age!

She is such a quick-witted girl.


	10. 4 May 1884

**Okiedokie, so I sort of skipped a year...but I'm only trying to get to the time where the Sign of Four occurs as quickly as possible! Bear with me, it's coming soon! Thanks again for even bothering with this, and please leave any constructive criticism or reviews you have for me!**

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4 May 1884

Heavens above, I have not written in this for quite a while.

Well, as I conjectured on this date last year, this morning, a parcel arrived bearing my name and the Forrester address. I took it to my room quickly and opened it to find yet another pearl, possibly being larger and more refined than the first two. It seems that each pearl is lovelier than its predecessor.

This business is beginning to put me at my wit's end. And what's worse is that Mrs. Forrester knows nothing of it. I have not breathed of this to a single person, and I feel horrified that such actions are being committed under my employer's roof. Dishonesty, lies, deceit…the amount of sins are continuously increasing.

Yet, I cannot make this problem her own. I will keep quiet about the entire situation…perhaps I shall be greeted next May 4th with another white lie.


End file.
